I feel the faint press of a lie, but I don’t know which truth it can be found hiding in.
My feelings move under the surface of my thoughts, leaving ripples and eddies. I’m not always able to identify what’s disturbing and moving the surface. Sometimes it’s arousal, unacknowledged ambition, an impatience, hidden shame, a quiet longing, or a biting envy… other times, it’s just something darkly ominous, unseen, and unknowable.
While moving through drawing excersizes this past year, there’s been a fairly consistent assertion that’s underpinned my use of color, one that states color is capable of making a bad drawing palatable. That the short comings of proportion, tonal massing, and detail can be (awkwardly) waved off with the application of color. The more hapdash, the better.
… but there’s a very good chance that, while this is true… it still can still also be a lie as well.
Can a lie be subjective?
Zygote Blum 